by Tessa Candle
“No.” Tilly met his eyes. “Never. I am very proud of you, in fact. The first day is the hardest.” She swallowed. “Are you ashamed of me?”
He sighed dreamily. “You mean because you deal in opium and game pullets? No, not ashamed. Fascinated, to be completely truthful. But I do fear for your wellbeing and your reputation. And I wish you would sell out your interests in these ventures.”
“If I sold out, some smoky piece of pig filth like Screwe would take over.”
“Do you know Lord Screwe?” Rutherford looked bewildered.
“I know of him.” She sighed. “And I was recently made acquainted with the man. He makes my skin crawl.”
Rutherford nodded. “You are not alone in that. No one really likes the man. His membership at White’s has been revoked.”
“I know. You might as well know that I also run a hell fire club—from a discreet distance.”
“Of course you do.” Rutherford chuckled. “You are an angel out of your element, my love. And you are so utterly perfect for me that I hate to ask you to change—”
“Then do not.” Her voice was serious.
“But I do not want to lose you. And the games you are playing are dangerous. Some of the people you associate with are dangerous, and your reputation would be ruined if it ever got out. You saw how Aldley reacted, and he is your friend.”
“Is he? I believe he may never recover from having his wife exposed to a brothel.” Her voice was bitter. “He blames me for it, but in truth, it is easier for him to be angry at me for removing Lydia from harm's way, than to hold Lydia to account for putting herself there.”
“No doubt. Using Crump to protect her was a flourish of genius, however.” His sardonic drawl was back.
“I used the means I had at my disposal to protect her, and all anyone can focus on are the superficial flaws of the means.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “No one seems to grasp that Lydia might have been seriously harmed, or abducted again, were it not for the measures I took.”
“I grasp it.” He stood up and took her in his arms. “I truly do think you are a marvel. And I am sorry Aldley reacted as he did, but I think he may get over it. He is in a difficult position with his wife, at the moment, but he is not an entirely unjust person. Only you have had your amusement now. Is it not time to give up these mischievous ventures?”
“You misunderstand my intentions entirely.” It was just like a man to assume a silly motive for anything a woman did. “It is not for the purpose of amusement or mischief that I run these businesses. It is for the purpose of good.”
Rutherford’s eyebrow quirked. “Oh really? I had no idea God's work could be so profitable.”
Tilly scoffed. “God's work. Who does God's work? If you mean the work of the church, you should ask how all of its trappings of worship came to be encrusted in jewels, then, if its work is not profitable. But I do not claim any holy calling. I merely grew tired of waiting for someone else to do the right thing, so I took it upon myself.”
“The right thing is selling poison and bodies? You have an unusual sense of ethics.”
Tilly was suddenly tired. She drew Rutherford over to a low, fur-bedecked couch and sat. “The right thing is setting up these ventures so that people have a choice about their life and a chance to better it. Do you not see? I always ask the people we find to choose between training for more respectable work and training to become a courtesan or peculiar.”
“There is some training involved, is there?”
“You have no idea. But the point is, if I simply turned a blind eye, like every other society woman, and let things go as they have done since the first city drew in the first penniless chit from the countryside, there would never be any hope of anything other than exploitation.”
“Clearly you have been reading that rubbish from France. But can you honestly say that you do not exploit these women?”
“The women working at the Belle Hire have chosen to work there. They work in a safe, clean environment, receive better remuneration than most in their vocation, and have access to a trust for when they are beyond working years. If they were working on the street, or for someone like Red Martha, they would never live long enough to bother considering a future after they could no longer work.”
Rutherford did not ask who Red Martha was, and this did not shock Tilly. She did not think him prone to consorting with prostitutes, but he could scarcely avoid hearing of Red Martha. Gentleman often spoke about such things when they thought women were not listening.
She continued. “And the proceeds from the Belle Hire and my other enterprises go to supporting the servant academy and orphanage, and giving employment and some decent accommodation to children on the street. It is a firm rule that children are protected from the people who mistreat them.”
Rutherford's face showed his disgust. “I have heard of such things, but I assumed it was exceptional.”
She could not stop herself from gritting her teeth at this convenient dismissal, which was all too common among his class. “The exploitation of the vulnerable has never been the exception where it is permitted to thrive by a hypocritical, squeamish society. I count every child that I have saved from Red Martha, or her like, as my reward for taking the risks that so worry you.”
“You are quite the revolutionary.” He smiled condescendingly. “Very well, but can you not give up the drug trade? I know how this craving takes a man over.” His face darkened. “Surely being around such desperate people puts you in peril.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “It is not to be thought of, in the context of the greater good.”
“Then consider its effects. Can you not see how people become enslaved?” His expression showed his own self-consciousness.
Tilly sighed more heavily than she wished. “Yes. But at least they had some choice in the matter, unlike the very real oppression of people into slavery.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I think you may be making excuses for yourself. And anyway, slavery is simply inevitable.”
“You would not look at it that way if it were you, or someone you loved who was being bought and sold like chattel, being made to work without pay at whatever the master might wish, and being beaten at the master's whim. And worse things besides.”
He huffed. “Not everyone treats their slaves so badly.”
She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “And how do you treat yours, sir?”
He looked away and picked a single dog hair, out of the hundreds, off of his pantaloons. “I do not have slaves, as well you know.”
“I know you own sugar cane plantations and rum production in the West Indies.”
“That is not the same.”
“True. It is worse. Here at home you mount the high horse of not owning slaves directly, which is in any case illegal in England. But you only relegate the moral responsibility for their treatment to the colonies, to some distant manager, far away from your notice.” Tilly could feel her anger rising. A part of her knew that she was, unfairly, blaming Rutherford for the crimes of all of England, which, she feared, would never be laid at the proper feet.
Rutherford shook his head and laughed. “I do not believe I ever conceived in all my life that I should someday be subjected to moral strictures from a woman who profits from prostitution, poisoning, and incorrigible gambling fiends.”
Tilly squared her shoulders. “As I have explained, this is all for the greater good.”
“Only take care you do not turn into the very evil you are trying to thwart. And anyway, I do not see how someone who cannot stop eating bonbons and biscuits for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch can reprimand me for owning sugar plantations.”
Tilly felt the blood drain from her face and then rush back in. He had the right of it, and she knew it, but it was not pleasant to be confronted with her own hypocrisy. “I am working toward procuring a plantation and liberating the erstwhile slaves. They shall work for wages.”
“But in the
meantime, you continue to eat the sugar produced by slaves. Tilly, I know you mean well, but can you not give up your schemes to save everyone? They are pointless. The world is how it is. You should think of yourself.”
“I do not know how to give up caring for people who are suffering and vulnerable.” Tilly sounded miserable.
“Then at least stop selling this noxious drug.”
“But it has legitimate medical purposes.” Her voice trailed off weakly.
“And if I told you I was just taking it medicinally, would you accept that?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“Then let us speak plainly and have a right understanding. You are not selling it medicinally, either.”
“But it funds so many other projects.”
“If I could demonstrate all the good I was doing with the proceeds of my sugar plantations, would you then turn a blind eye to the slavery?”
She would not. But it was not precisely the same thing. Still, he had a definite point, and she had never been comfortable with the destructive power of opium. “Very well. If you will free your slaves, and pay fair wages to those who wish to stay, I shall find a way of getting out of the opium trade.”
Rutherford thought about it for a few moments. “And will you also give up eating sugar which is made with slave labour?” His grin held a playful sort of malice. “You are asking me to give up laudanum, after all.”
Tilly was sure he did not believe she could do it. “But laudanum will kill you.” She unconsciously pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Sugar is the only thing that rids me of my headaches.”
Rutherford tilted his head. “And what of my cramps and spasms and profuse sweating? I might equally say that laudanum is the only cure for those.”
Tilly did not like it, but she was willing to agree to anything, if it would keep Rutherford on his program of weaning. “Very well, although you know it is a nonsensical comparison.”
In fact, the whole conversation was nonsensical. She was supposed to be setting Rutherford free, not getting further entangled with him by making reciprocal agreements.
He was sitting close to her and he kissed her then. His lips were so soft and so teasing, but so strong. All of her rational faculties were overcome in a flood of love and wanting.
“You know,” he said huskily, “I can think of an excellent way to seal this bargain.”
And Tilly could think of one too, but she dared not. He was so vulnerable, continuing to exploit his tender heart for her own gratification would be cruel. And her own tender heart also needed guarding.
She tore herself away and stood, trying to keep the dreadful wave of love that flooded over her from seeping into her voice. “As tempting as you are, my stallion, I must go. This cannot be good for your recovery.”
“I think it will be excellent for my recovery.” He stood and re-entangled her, pressing his erection against her again. “And getting more exercise is on my list of things to accomplish this week.”
“Then may I suggest a more traditional form of sword play.” She wriggled out of his grasp and bolted for the door, grabbing her bonnet and calling, “Do not forget to follow the schedule. I shall make one for my sugar tomorrow, though the very thought pains me.”
Her heart pounded and she felt the loss of him so deeply that she wept as she left through the servants’ entrance.
He had not proposed to her this time. He always proposed to her when they met clandestinely. Was he becoming inured to the idea of merely having her as a mistress? Had he given up on fighting her marriage to DeGroen? Or worse, was he tiring of their affair?
She wanted to turn back, to tell him that she loved him, to tell him she had changed her mind. But nothing had changed. Still, it was walking against a hurricane to leave him. It was as though a cord at her waist was pulled taut. And every step she took away from him was excruciating.
Chapter 20
When Tilly entered the breakfast room at Frederick's home the next morning, she was relieved to see that Genevieve had not yet emerged from her chambers. Frederick and DeGroen turned from closely examining the new wallpapers, as Tilly entered.
“Good morning, my dear.” Mr. DeGroen pecked her cheek.
Frederick kissed her forehead, adding, “If any morning can be good, when it begins with such a spectacle as that.”
“Genevieve's new wallpapers have been installed, I see.” Tilly examined the red and gold dragon pattern. “It seems the penchant for new wallpapers runs in the family. But these are not so very bad, brother.”
“They are, in fact, perfect for an oriental-themed house of ill-repute.” Frederick scowled.
“Not to demean houses of ill repute in any way.” Mr. DeGroen was equanimous.
“No, of course not.” Tilly joined in the game. “However, I will allow that it is a bit much to face before one has broken fast.”
“By themselves, they might be endured. But she has ordered Doric columns for the doorway, Tilly. Doric ruddy columns. And a collection of authentic ancient Grecian urns, a set of miniatures of all the great Roman statues, and God knows what else.” Frederick pressed a finger into one temple, and gestured frantically with the other hand to encompass the entire parlour. “This is all to be strewn about our breakfast room just as though an ancient Mediterranean god cast up his accounts on the pagoda of some Chinese emperor.”
“You see, Tiddly.” DeGroen was enjoying Frederick's torment. “Our Frederick is an artist. He has a delicate constitution where aesthetics are involved.”
Tilly patted Frederick's arm. “I know it is true, my dear, suffering brother. However, there are simple solutions to your predicament.”
Frederick looked hopeful. “What would you propose?”
Tilly seated herself at the table, and her fingers twitched at the plate of bonbons by her water glass. She had eaten her sweetie upon rising and could not have any more until afternoon tea. She poured herself a cup of sugarless tea instead. “You are only looking at the situation from your own perspective and not from hers. The central problem is not a tragically ill-advised love for what one might euphemistically call improvements. It is that she is bored and has nothing with which to amuse herself but spending your money as conspicuously as possible.”
Frederick shrugged. “And?”
“So you must either give her free rein to do it somewhere else. For example, by buying her a massive house and letting her redecorate it into perpetuity, as she is possessed by this or that evil spirit of fashionable tastelessness. Or...” Tilly raised her eyebrows at him and gave him a pointed look.
He shook his head at her. “Well, do not leave me hanging. What is this alternative that is less likely to drive me into the poor house?”
Tilly laughed. “As if that were possible.” She sipped her tea maddeningly slowly, then added, “Or you could give her a child.”
“There you have it, Freddy!” DeGroen slapped Frederick’s shoulder and laughed. “You can always rely on your sister for the most sensible advice. True,” he turned to Tilly, “I do not know what we should do without you to do all the difficult thinking. Give her a child! Why did we not think of that?”
Frederick frowned at her. “You know I should very much like a child.”
“As should I.” DeGroen winked. “And I suspect I shall beat you to it, Frederick.” He sat down at the table and ate a sausage with his fingers, drawling, “Whatever is taking you so long, old boy?”
“I believe it might be arranged, Frederick.” She smiled at her brother sadly, as though he were a slightly slow puppy tying to learn a trick. “I am somewhat surprised that you have not sorted it out yourself.”
Frederick pulled a face at her. But then he came to her side and gave her a sweet smile while he jounced her elbow. “But you always sort things out so well, Tiddly.”
She sighed. “I will look into it.” She loved them both, but why must she always fix everyone else's problems? Frederick had essentially all the same connections as she did. She
wanted a ruddy bonbon. “Will someone take this sodding dish of sweets away!”
Frederick stared at her as though she were a woman possessed, and DeGroen gave him a look of alarm, but removed the dish to the hallway without comment. Then he dashed back in and said, “The missus is coming!”
Tilly shook her head, as the two men seated themselves more theatrically than she thought possible, and pretended, most pointedly, to be having a normal breakfast conversation. They all stood as Frederick's wife entered.
“Good morning, Mathilde.” Genevieve kissed at Tilly's cheeks and missed twice, like a true daughter of France. “I hope you slept well.”
“Yes, thank you. How was your card party at the Beauchamps’ last night?” Tilly remarked that Genevieve's eyes were shadowed.
“It went terribly late, but it was quite diverting.” Genevieve's voice had the practised lightness that was uniform among the ton. “The lady of the house plays rather high, but I do not think I quite sent her to the poorhouse.”
“Ah, well.” Tilly crinkled her eyes. “There is always next time.”
Genevieve giggled.
“I see you have been making improvements.” Tilly could not resist tweaking her brother's nose.
Genevieve beamed. “I saw the wall paper and just fell in love with it.” She turned to her husband. “How do you like it, Frederick, my love?”
“It is,” he blinked, “so emphatically oriental that your friends will all be mad with jealousy.” He then stuffed his teacup in his mouth.
After breakfast, Genevieve pulled Tilly into her sitting room. “Do not go just yet, sister. I should like a longer visit with you.”
Tilly had a sense of foreboding that she was about to be treated to more of other peoples' troubles.
She sat in one of the newly upholstered Mandarin red chairs, and admired the elegant counter-point they made to the delicate lilac plaster in the walls. She could not even have a biscuit.
Genevieve took up her needlework as a matter of course, and Tilly waited for her to begin.
“I believe,” Genevieve said after she had pulled a few stitches through, “that my mother came to visit you the other day, did she not?”